Perceptions
by Drake Roberts
Summary: For those of you who didn't buy the "Green Ghost" theory, here's how Gambit REALLY got out of Antarctica.


**Perceptions**

By: Drake_Roberts 

Standard Disclaimer: This original work (at least I hope it's original) was not written with the express permission of Marvel Comics (duh), but because of the love I feel for the characters they have created. I in no way mean to infringe upon their rights. I am not making any money off of this work; the only profit I earn is your constructive criticism. Any comments, good, bad, or ugly will be received well. However, personal insults to my lack of writing ability will feed my gargoyles. Send your comments (or gargoyle fodder) to me at arrogantworms@hotmail.com. Enjoy! 

Believe it or not, several days had passed before I even discovered what had befallen Gambit in Antarctica. Serves me right for not keeping up with the lastest developments. They never knew it, but I always checked in on the mansion every few weeks or so. The resident excommunicant of the New Orleans Thieves Guild was not the only one who could find loopholes in the security system. Over the last few months, though, I had become lax in my observations. Other things had occupied my time, and to be perfectly honest, I never thought the X-Men would ever do anything like this. I guess that the years have made even my perceptions blur. I should have remembered that heroes can act callous and unforgiving too, given the right circumstances. 

I left as soon as I heard. Got away as fast as possible without raising suspicions. That didn't take nearly as long as I expected, although this fact failed to surprise me much. Not once has anyone ever questioned my actions when I left; not even when no visible reason existed for my departure. No one ever questions what forces drive me to leave on what they perceive to be a whim. Not that I feel obligated to give anyone an answer. Most of the time, no one asks when I will return either. I feel comfortable that no one will ever demand explanations for my comings and goings, but I throw caution to the wind, just in case. I wonder who would be more surprised, me if they actually asked me where I was going off to, or them when I refused to tell them? I can't have the rest of the team thinking I play favorites. Just think of the rumors it might start. Besides, I never play favorites. And after everything that has happened, the name Remy LeBeau is usually never referred to with less than three profanities in close proximity, not that the name was all that revered before. 

I have decided that in this undertaking, subtlety is the key to success. Gambit must never learn of what I am doing for him. Therefore, having him wake up in the Caribbean is not an option. I can see his reaction. He'd hunt me down, cards charged, eyes blazing, bo staff at the ready, and demand an explanation. Either that, or skip the reasoning and just royally kick my ass. I don't think I could ever give him a satisfactory one. Undoubtedly, the situation would quickly become. . . messy to say the least. Can't have that, now can we? 

Just enough to make sure he comes out of this alive and relatively unharmed, I tell myself. A nudge here, an economy class plane ticket there, a few small leaps and bounds, and voila! Not up to par with my usual entrances and exits, but as I have told myself already today, I am going for subtle. 

Maybe I should have brought a couple of the others with me? This I think while I ride a dogsled across the endless field of white which is the Antarctic landscape. No time, I tell myself without so much as a change in course or speed. I know where I am headed, as much as if I had actually witnessed what transpired only days ago. Hopefully the Cajun kept his wits about him and stayed in the citadel as long as possible instead of plunging headfirst into the snow. I assume he did, Gambit never struck me as someone who would do something so blantantly suicidal. My mind slides back to Seattle and the look on Gambit's face as Rogue turned her back on him. I encourage the dogs to go faster. 

Fortunately, I find Gambit with little trouble, several miles from the Magneto's now collapsed citadel, slumped unconscious in the snow. Half starved, yes, frostbitten, definitely, but nothing too severe, at least considering he had been residing at probably the coldest place on Earth for nearly a week. I wonder how he got this far, how he had survived so long? Some manifestion of his mutant abilities he failed to share? Advanced survival skills learned from the Thieves' Guild? Dumb luck? Probably the third, I decide, finally. 

I don't let myself dwell on these thoughts for long. Instead, I get to work. Within minutes, I have unloaded the scant equipment I brought with me. A quick scan assures me that if I warm the Cajun quickly, he should recover. The wind snatches one of the blankets from my sled while I am attending to the "patient". With only a moment's thought, I remove the parka I have donned and wrap it tightly around Gambit's shoulders. _He's_ severely hypothermic and getting worse by the second; however, a little cold won't kill me. 

I pick Gambit up, he's definitely lost weight I notice, and place him in the dogsled, covered in the other blankets I brought along. As I prepare to leave, I notice a small recorder lying in the snow. It appears to have survived the cold, so as the sled carries us to our final destination, I listen to the tape it contains. It's not like my sled's other occupant is in any condition to speak at the moment. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

The Savage Land, I never thought I would be so happy to see this place. An excellent representation of an alternate course of evolution, but not one of my choice spots. I stay with him for several hours after we arrive, making sure he warms properly, that circulation returns to all his frostbitten areas. It seems lady luck _was_ with him after all; I don't believe he will suffer any permanent damage. I must confess, that has me relieved. Though I did not exile him, the fact that I failed to realize what had been done would have troubled me if something worse had happened. The fact that this happened in the first place bothers me already. 

As I watch over the unconscious Cajun, I wonder what was going through Rogue's mind when she decided he deserved to be sacrificed to the elements. What about the other X-Men who were at the "trial", if you can call it that? What emotions so overwhelmed them that they left a team member, one of their own, to die? Betrayal? Grief? Hate? 

Or maybe it was cowardice, better to condemn than to try and accept. Despite Gambit's secrecy, Rogue thought she knew the rascal thief she had let into her heart. In one kiss, her perception of him had changed from a diamond in the rough Prince Charming, into something else entirely, a human being with faults much like her own. Faults she couldn't bury in her subconscious like the last time. A decision fell into her lap, deal with the change or balk. Not much of a choice, really. Dumping a problem is always easier than trying to solve it. 

I wince at my own cynicism and stop my own thoughts before they go any farther. It is none of my concern why the X-Men in Antarctica left Gambit to die, without even a chance to defend his choice to remain silent. Or is it? I altered the course of events; I have just quite possibly saved his life. Doesn't that give me the right to at least discover why my intervention was necessary? Did everyone who felt betrayed blindly believe that Remy LeBeau had grown up and made his living as a very successful thief for years, yet somehow kept his hands clean of any wrongdoing? Were they so ill prepared for him to be harboring a secret? I didn't think it was possible for grown people to be that naive. Is it him they feel betrayed by or their own perceptions of the people around them? If their picture of Gambit could be proven so skewed, anyone could potentially be more than they appear, Apocalypse, Magneto, even me. I almost crack a smile when I picture myself barging into the mansion and demanding that Rogue and the others explain to me the reasons behind what happened and why she decided it was her right to be judge, jury, and executioner. No one would ever see that one coming. 

It doesn't really matter anyway, I tell myself. It's time for me to leave, Gambit is starting to come around. I can't stay here if I expect him to remain ignorant to what I have done. But at the same time, I also have to accept the fact that he might discover my meddling anyway. When I first met him, I didn't think he was very bright, but over time, I've come to know better. I'll just have to count on the fact that he won't want to know who came after him when he wakes up miles from where he remembers falling. On the whole, he usually respects someone's right to privacy. Believe it or not, it's one of the few things I have always liked about him. I just hope it makes him keep his guard up for a while. He's going to need it if he tries to return to the X-Men. 

I leave the parka in a nearby cave, along with a pack of freeze dried food and basic supplies. The skeleton slumped in the corner of the cave has just become more rich in death than it was in life. I hear Gambit moan from the spot I had left him and for a moment I consider staying until after he awakens. What would he do if he knew it was me who gave him a helping hand? I just shake my head at my own foolish thoughts. He'd never accept it. Me feeling a responsibility toward him, what a hoot! Those he considered dear to his heart abandoned him. Finding out that I came after him and not one of his near and dear ones would probably hurt him more than not knowing. He doesn't even like me. That I consider him family would probably earn me a disbelieving look at the least, or more than likely a bo staff to the head. At least, that's what I tell myself as I turn to go, clutching the tape recorder in my hand. Besides, I tell myself as I walk away, I have one more stop to make. 

Before leaving the frozen continent, I returned to Magneto's citadel, and placed the tape recorder in plain view. Gambit may have not been willing to leave it for anyone that returned to hear, but I had no problems with it. I let my perceptions make me assume too much. They let the breaking of their perceptions rationalize abandoning a man who was family. We all deserved to hear it. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

"Are you feeling well?" Robert Drake woke up to a concerned pair of eyes and a blue furry hand on his forehead. "Your body temperature has deviated from its normal homeostatic level." 

"I have a fever?" Bobby asked. 

Hank blinked. "That's another way of putting it." 

Pushing off his friend's hand, he sat up on the couch in his parents' living room and sighed deeply. His lungs protested and the sigh developed into a hacking cough. After regaining his breath, he smiled slightly. 

"Who'd a thunk it?" was his hoarse reply. 

Hank McCoy was not amused. He pushed his reluctant patient down on the couch none too gently. One hand replaced itself on Bobby's forehead while the other grabbed his wrist, checking his pulse. Bobby squirmed under the sudden attention. Hank pointedly ignored his protests. 

"How long, Bobby?" 

"What?' 

"How long have you been ill?" 

Bobby shrugged. "I dunno. A couple of days, I guess." 

"More like a week," his father supplied from the kitchen. 

Hank gave his best friend a severe and slightly hurt look. "I really wish you would have informed me of your condition before I arrived." 

Several sarcastic replies came to mind. "What, afraid I got cooties?" "I'm sick, not pregnant!" "Sorry, Dad." Of course, his father had been watching him worriedly the last few days, and had given Hank a pointed look when he arrived late last night. Bobby could also see concern still etched in his best friend's features. So, for once, he bit his tongue. "Don't worry, Blueboy. I've just got a little cold is all." 

Hank's lips tweeked ever so slightly, not quite a smile, but at least an admittance that he might be overreacting just a little. "And just how, pretell, did the indomitable Iceman, contract this nefarious malady?" 

"Four words, Hank: Cold weather, no coat." 

The response gave Hank pause. While Bobby had answered with a carefree smile on his face, Dr. McCoy had detected none of Iceman's usual wry humor. Instead, there seemed to be a distant and almost, sad tone to his voice. "Bobby, are you sure you're alright?" 

"Yeah Big Blue, I'm okay," Bobby answered him, suppressing another bout of coughing. He gave Beast a reassuring smile, but Hank noticed that he didn't rise from his position on the couch. That alone told him that Bobby was feeling worse than he let on. Hank decided to let the matter slide, for now. 

The two decided that a leisurely day watching the Star Wars Trilogy was in order. Or more precisely, Beast insisted that they spend their day indoors due to Bobby's temperature, despite Bobby's protests. Bobby had tried to convince Hank that he was an adult who could decide whether or not he should go outside and play. But between Hank's gentle insistence and his father's sour looks, he conceded that staying in and watching the Star Wars Trilogy, original, not remastered, might be a better idea. It didn't take that much convincing. To be perfectly honest, he felt like curling up into a ball and sleeping for a few weeks, but he'd die before telling that to Hank. He hardly ever visited him at home, and Bobby wanted him to stay. He missed having him around, talking to him on a daily basis, like when they lived in the mansion. 

Over the course of the day, however, Bobby noticed a change in Hank's mood. He didn't laugh at Princess Leia's hair. He didn't yell along with Darth Vader's famous line in The Empire Strikes Back. Hank didn't even say how much better a god he would have made for the Ewoks to worship than C-3PO. By the end of The Return of the Jedi when Hank wasn't dancing during the Ewok celebration, Bobby had seen enough. 

"What's wrong?" 

"I don't know what you are talking about, Robert." 

"Spill it, Hank. I'm not buying that 'Robert' crap!" Hank only used that tone when calling him "Robert" on four occasions, when he was worried about him, ready to kill him, feeling particularly smug, or whenever he was intentionally trying to hide something from him. 

"Something's bugging you, Hank. Tell me." 

"Robert, you needn't concern yourself. . ." 

"Now, _McCoy_." His tone broached no argument, a rarity within itself. 

"I was merely contemplating, Robert." 

"Very bad habit, Hank," Bobby informed him with mock seriousness. At least he was starting to get somewhere. "Oh, well. What's done is done. What's on your mind, buddy?" 

Hank sighed heavily. He could tell by the look on Bobby's face that he was not going to be left alone until he answered Bobby's questions. Funny, the young man could be rather ruthless when he put his mind to it, Hank mused. 

"Gambit," Hank answered with another sigh. "I was wondering what became of our ex-resident thief. After Rogue informed us of her abandonment of him at Magneto's citadel, I was horrified. But the impending danger due to the techno organic bomb implanted into Cyclops' abdomen demanded all of my attention. I regret to say that I forgot about our Cajun comrade until Jean asked me about him the next day. Cyclops had inquired about Gambit the night before and, while she had picked up the general idea from our projected emotions, she wanted all the details before telling her husband." 

The pain stricken look on Hank's face when he looked up at Bobby made his heart wrench. "Cecilia had just that morning removed a bomb from Scott's body, yet he still asked about a missing teammate before me. And I knew the extent of Remy's peril. I told Jean everything, and she searched for him telepathically. But with Remy's resistance to telepathic probes and the lack of Cerebro, she came up empty. We called Muir Island, but their search with Cerebro found nothing either." 

"I didn't even know what had happened to him until right before I left," Bobby interjected softly. 

Hank looked at him apolegetically. "I should have told you at my earliest convenience. I am truly sorry." 

Bobby shrugged. "You weren't the only one there, Blue. There were six other people who could have filled me in on what happened while you were all in Antarctica. None of them bothered to inform me either." 

Hank nodded sadly. "And the saddest part of all was that not many of the others were really bothered by the fact that Jean and I could not locate Gambit. Ororo was too overcome with grief to do anything, Warren too angry to even think straight. Scott wasn't even conscious more than a few hours a day. Jean, bless her kind soul, tried to help, but her abilities were already being taxed to the limit keeping Scott from suffering the worst of his pain. No one even brought up Gambit, or the fact that Rogue had just left him to die. No one decided if she should have been rebuked for her actions." 

"Rogue should never have left him there. I don't care what she saw in his head." His slightly hoarse voice made the blunt statement sound savage. Hank met his friend's eyes and saw the conviction there, as well as the anger. Suddenly, he no longer believed Bobby's sore throat was the sole reason for the savage tone. 

He briefly wondered what would have happened if Bobby had been told what had befallen Gambit before he was on his way back to his ailing father. Bobby, more than anyone, knew what happened to Rogue when she absorbed another person's memories. He had accompanied her across the country when Remy's memories had led her to Seattle after her last exposure to Gambit's persona. Hank found himself relieved that Bobby's animosity toward the man didn't cloud his judgement like some of the other X-Men. 

"Gambit didn't deserve that, not from her, not from anyone," Bobby said, seemingly reading Hank's thoughts. "I saw him after Rogue left him in Seattle. He may not be my best friend, heck, just calling him a friend would probably be a stretch, but I saw his face after she flew away then. She had just ripped his heart out, stomped on it, and thrown it into orbit. I don't even think she knew how much she had hurt him, but for a moment I saw it on his face. I didn't like the fact he wouldn't come clean with Rogue, at least, but I felt bad for him. You can't ever think a guy is a complete jerk after you've seen him get his heart handed to him on a platter." 

"I am glad that someone agrees with me on this issue," Hank said patting Bobby on the shoulder. 

"He sat with my father while he was in the hospital, you know," Bobby added thoughtfully. "I'd been in the room with him for over a day without a break,after. . . .after I found him. I was a wreck by the time he and Ororo came. Ororo saw I wasn't coping well and took me up to the roof to talk. Gambit stayed with my father. He barely knew _me_ much less my father, but he stayed anyway. That wasn't the only time he came by while I stayed there with my dad, you know. He visited a couple of more times while Dad was in the hospital, and checked in on us a couple of times after he was allowed to come home. That is, until Christmas Eve, when all of you got transported away by Gladiator. I'm surprised the two of you never came on the same day." 

"I don't think any of the X-Men even knew of his visits with you and your father," Hank answered quietly. "I know I am quite surprised to say the least." 

"One of my father's favorite things to do when he was still bed ridden during his recovery was play poker with me and Gambit," Bobby added with a soft laugh. "I enjoyed it too, to tell you the truth. It kept me from going nuts, cooped up in this house. I never quite figured out why he did all of this, but I do know that the X-Men mean more to him than he lets on." 

Hank put his head in his hands. "And now his present location and condition are a mystery." 

"Don't worry, Hank. He'll turn up, you'll see," Bobby assured him. 

"He was stranded in Antarctica, Bobby," Hank noted bleakly. 

"He made it to warmer pastures,old buddy. Lady Luck is _always_ on his side," Bobby sighed. "Eventually." 

After the somber conversation, Bobby decided a change of mood was needed. The Night of the Mindless Comedies was declared. The two jammed with air guitars during _Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. _ They debated who looked better in lingerie, Tim Curry or Barry Bostwick, in _The Rocky Horror Picture Show._ Then, they repeated, word for word with the actors, their favorite scenes from _Monty Python and the Holy Grail._ Bobby nodded off sometime after the Knights of the Round Table fought the killer bunny rabbit. William Drake walked into the darkened living room as the credits were rolling. 

"We didn't keep you awake, did we Mr. Drake?" Hank asked the older man. 

"No, you didn't. I'm a closet insomniac," he assured the blue furred scientist. He glanced at his son who was sleeping peacefully, his head resting on the pillow against the armrest and his feet tucked underneath him. "He going to be okay, Doc, right?" Mr. Drake whispered. 

"I am fairly certain he has a cold, or possibly mild bronchitis, and only requires a few days rest and maybe an antibiotic. I'll inform Dr. Reyes of his symptoms and persuade her to make a house call tomorrow." Hank chuckled softly. 

"What?" William asked. 

"You have yet to meet Cecilia, am I right?" Hank asked, the smile still hovering on his face. 

"I haven't had the pleasure, no," Bobby's father answered. 

"Then I won't ruin it for you, Mr. Drake." He looked down at Bobby as well and, carefully not to wake him, placed his hand on his forehead. "Still running a bit warm," he murmured. "Should I take him up to his room?" 

"You take his room," William told him. "It's two in the morning," he continued before Hank could offer any protest. "Stay here tonight. He'll be okay on the couch. He sleeps there half of the time anyway." 

Hank smiled at the older man. "If you insist. Good night, Mr. Drake." 

"Sleep well, Hank," William told him as he went up the stairs soundlessly. About half way up, Hank stopped and looked thoughtfully at Bobby and his father for a moment. Mr. Drake was pulling a blanket up around Bobby's chin. Curled up on the couch, Bobby barely looked a day older than he had when he'd arrived at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters years ago. Bobby shivered slightly under the blanket and stretched out on the couch. Hank hadn't seen Bobby shiver since the first few times he had frozen himself solid. Deep in his mind, something was nagging at him. Pieces of information were frantically attempting to put themselves together, but the picture wasn't whole yet. Hank shrugged and continued up the stairs. If he let his mind stew on the mystery of Bobby's sudden malady long enough, he would discover the answers he wanted. 

William watched his son sleep, an occasional cough escaping his lips. Sometimes he forgot that his son was still a young man. He'd left home before he was even grown. Over the years, he'd seen his son and classmates go toe to toe with some of the most feared villians of the planet. And he'd seen his son put his life on the line for people who, under normal circumstances, would rather shoot him than look at him. 

After his near death at the hands of the Friends of Humanity, he had learned to cherish every minute he existed on this Earth. During his recovery, he and Bobby had grown closer than they'd been in a long time, and he'd learned many things about his son. Bobby did not waste his time. The occasional petty grievance got in the way at times, but he tried his best to make every moment count. He guessed living as a 'mutant terrorist' made you realize the important things in life. 

Of course, his son also still watched cartoons on Saturday mornings. It was one of the only times, except when he was handling an accounting job over the Internet, that his son got out of bed before noon. He'd sit there with his breakfast and see what the network had to offer in the way of action-packed, Y7 or less entertainment . One day, William had decided to join him. Bobby had looked at him strangely for a moment, then offered him one of his honey buns. They laughed through a four hour marathon of The Power Rangers. As he was telling him about the time he and Jubilee had ran a Power Ranger simulation in the Danger Room with them as Rita and Zed, Mr. Drake had realized that his son, although a member of the X-Men and the sole source of income during his recovery was little more than a boy himself. Yet he'd taken on more responsibility than many men he knew. 

He looked up the way Hank had went and saw that he'd already turned out the light in Bobby's room. He assumed he was asleep. William brushed a few locks of hair out of Bobby's eyes. "Your friend's putting the pieces together; I saw it in his eyes," he whispered. "He's a smart man; he'll figure it out sooner or later, just like I did when you came here a day late, exhausted and shivering for the first time since when you first found out you were a mutant." He stroked Bobby's cheek. Bobby stirred, but didn't awaken. "You're a good man, son." He smiled one last time at his son and headed up the stairs to bed. 

_So, did you like it? Questions? Comments? Direct them to me at _arrogantworms@hotmail.com 


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